


Synonyms

by MidLifeLez



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, No Plot/Plotless, Smut, Strap-Ons, berena - Freeform, no one dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 18:45:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9561953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidLifeLez/pseuds/MidLifeLez
Summary: Bernie, Serena, a strap-on, there's not much more to it. Please don't read if you don't like smut or long sentences.





	

_Oh no, Serena, no, don’t_ – Serena’s hands, which have been holding Bernie’s hips, her thumbs pressing just along the top of her hipbones, are moving around to grip Bernie’s arse, to apply more pressure, to tease the tops of her thighs, to tug at the leather – _don’t do that, Serena. I can’t… it’ll… I’ll…_

-

Serena hadn’t been sure about using toys, initially. She’d never really given it much thought before Bernie (this was becoming a key distinction in her life, a new way to measure time; there was now: Bernie, reassuring glances in theatre, conversations in to the small hours, shivers and goosebumps when she helped her into her coat and her breath danced along her hairline; and there was before, and Serena didn’t have to try very hard to let the details of that slide out of focus until it was just a mass of time that she felt now, with a pang of guilt, was perhaps just waiting).

She hadn’t given it a lot of thought after Bernie either, truth be told. Working alongside one another as they did, Serena had had ample opportunity to appreciate Bernie’s strong and slender hands – nimble, dexterous; there were probably another 20 words in the thesaurus, 30, perhaps, and they were all of that – and was glad of it during the weeks when Bernie had been in Kiev and her imagination had authored the scenes that Bernie herself had run away from. Serena Campbell had already put Berenice Bloody Wolfe’s hands to pornographically good use before the trauma surgeon had clambered ( _eager_? Doesn’t cover it. The thesaurus might have met its match in having to describe the way that Bernie had been that night) into her bed for the first time, and they had more than lived up to that since. She didn’t want Bernie thinking otherwise.

Because pleasuring Serena was very obviously something that Bernie took extremely seriously. Serena had never been handled with such care, this way up, that way up; such attention; such, well, diligence. And if that sounds unromantic, or less than sexy, then clearly you’ve never had the pleasure, the delight, the sheer bloody bliss of watching as Bernie Wolfe, big macho army medic, bleach-blonde human disaster, tracked your body for even the slightest response, catalogued it, adjusted her fingers, her tongue, her thigh _just so_ ; scanned again, made a mental note, glanced up at you with a shy smile, just checking in, just making sure, just reminding you that this is all for you, that she is all for you, that this isn’t about how long, or how much, but about perfection, because that’s the very least you deserve, Serena Campbell, and the frown on Bernie’s face as she seeks that for you, the frown, it’s, well, it’s so _Bernie_ , isn’t it? Make ‘Bernie’ an adjective and add _that_ to the dictionary.

-

 _Don’t, not yet, not yet_ \- Serena can’t help but still and watch as the frown settles over Bernie’s eyes, which are clenched shut as if that’ll keep her lover from seeing the battle being wrought beneath – _you first, always you first…_

-

It had been Dr Copeland who’d mentioned it, when the three of them had emptied several bottles between them during an especially ill-advised night at Albies. Not directly, not explicitly – he didn’t have a death wish – but some oblique reference that had made Serena cough on her Shiraz while Bernie attempted to tunnel to Australia using only the force of her stare. They’d lain quietly in bed that night, each keeping to her own side of the bed, each eyeing the ceiling.

“Is it something you’d…” Bernie had asked, after taking a deep breath.

“Well, I, er, I don’t know,” Serena started, “is it, I mean…”

“We can, if you, if you, I wouldn’t be, it’s…”

And then Serena had put her hand on top of Bernie’s, stilling them both, and they’d said no more about it.

 

Serena had thought about it, though. Only wondered. It wasn’t something that preyed on her mind as thoughts of Bernie had done ever since their first kiss. Her curiosity had been piqued, that was all. Just that. So she’d had a look online, just to see, just to know, just so she could make an informed decision, and once the notion of Bernie’s backside framed in strips of black leather had formed, it was rather difficult to shake off. Serena hadn’t had such an athletic lover since her early 20s, and perhaps, well, perhaps that could be slightly better exploited.

“I don’t want you to think…”

“No,” Bernie breathed, narrowing her eyes above pinking cheeks and a widening smile. “I don’t. I’d be… 

“It’s just an idea, it’s not…”

“I’ll sort it. I’m, it’s…”

The only thing that never got finished off in Serena’s bedroom was their sentences.

 

-

 _Paperwork… washing up… management meetings…_ Bernie was looking for anything that would distract her from the building sensation between her legs, her eyes now casting about the room seeking invitations that would take her mind away, allow her to focus on Serena and not on how close she was – _ah! No, no –_ to coming apart at the seams. Serena, who had hooked one leg over Bernie’s shoulder and let out a deep, trembling moan as Bernie had carefully but not tentatively pushed into her the first time. Serena, who had looked at her – who _always_ looked at her – like she was seeing the stars in the night sky for the first time. Serena, who is pulling firmly on Bernie’s buttocks now, turning her fingers underneath the leather to tighten its grasp around Bernie, smiling, grinning, wicked, devilish as she watches Bernie’s increasingly hopeless attempts to disassociate from the fire raging beneath the harness. Serena has never cared less about her own pleasure than in this moment.

-

 

Nobody could have failed to notice the swagger that had crept into Bernie’s stride since she’d returned from Ukraine and taken up with Serena. She felt alive, revived not only by the warmth of Serena’s company after two miserable, sterile months away, but by the way it felt to be honest, to love, and to see the person you love enjoy you with such a glorious lack of inhibition. Serena made her feel capable of anything.

Still, she had felt a bit… well, a bit daft, if you must know, approaching the bed, approaching Serena, with this, this _appendage_ sticking out of the front of her open gown. She didn’t know how she’d feel if she caught Serena eyeing it hungrily, this thing that wasn’t really her, that she had to _add_ , that would require lubricant that her fingers – she smirked – managed to manufacture of their own accord. Serena, though, had swept a glance up the length of Bernie’s body and then focused her rapt attention only on her face. Had smiled and asked her to take off the gown and give her a spin. Had inhaled sharply at the sight of Bernie’s arse in the harness, better even than she’d imagined. “Oh I think you’d better come here, Ms. Wolfe.”

And suddenly it hadn’t felt so alien, so separate from her body, so phony, once she was on top of Serena, once she was kissing her, once she felt Serena’s hands on her skin, her fingertips as usual the master of an almost visible electricity. The feeling of entering Serena, one arm grasping her thigh and the other holding herself up off the bed, well, this was a treat. This was being invited to the palace, wasn’t it, being given the nuclear codes, treading the line between thrill and restraint while drunk on your own sheer damn luck. Every time her body met Serena’s, Bernie praised and cursed the press of the harness against her, a spark ignited further by memories of just exactly how Serena would be feeling around the dildo, around her, because this _was_ her now: her thrusts, her hips flexing, her conscientiously acquired knowledge of what Serena would want next, and after that, and after that.

So here she is – _no, Serena, no, don’t_ – as Serena’s hands release her hips and make a play for her arse, tracing the underneath of her buttocks before manipulating the leather that just might be the only thing currently holding her together. _Don’t do that, Serena. I can’t… it’ll… I’ll…_

But Serena knows exactly what it’ll do, what Bernie will do, and _that_ is what she wants next, actually. What she wants to see, hear, feel. Bernie, her Bernie, her magnificent – bumbling, yes, but still rather brilliant, still able to invert the universe, damn her, thank her, thank god for her, Bernie who will gladly give – no, lavish – 10 orgasms for every one she receives; Bernie putting chivalry aside, Bernie giving in to the buckling of her own body, Bernie taking, not thinking, no plan B, just this, this because it feels _so_ good; Bernie unclenching her jaw, unbiting her lip, letting her elbow drop to the mattress, letting out the cry that she’s been wrestling in her chest and all the others ready to tumble in its wake, moaning into Serena’s breasts as she kisses and licks not for Serena but for herself, for the sensation, just because she can; using Serena’s body to crest the wave, pulling, pressing, slowing, cursing – _fuck!_ – because really, what could be more gratifying? Perhaps only the look that Bernie gives her when she finally opens her eyes, with its blend of shyness and uncertainty, unnecessary gratitude wrapped in unnecessary apology, and an adoration that would be unnerving in its intensity if it didn’t feel exactly like looking in a mirror.


End file.
